


Of Happiness and Kilts

by ThaliaClio



Series: Demons and Playmates [4]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Psych
Genre: Cuddling on the beach, Falling In Love, He's cool with it, Hey guess what, I put pineapple in here too, JARVIS and Shawn are going to rule the world, M/M, Shawn is Mel Gibson, Shawn's wearing the sweatpants again, There's a kilt guys, Tony's the scapegoat, or maybe Julia Roberts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-19
Updated: 2013-11-19
Packaged: 2018-01-02 00:57:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1050616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThaliaClio/pseuds/ThaliaClio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony builds a robot and a company. Birthdays are never really celebrated. Shawn is Mel Gibson - not Julia Roberts. Alternatively titled "Happy Birthday, Tony".</p><p>We are all searching for someone whose demons play well with ours. - Unknown</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Happiness and Kilts

Tony Stark measures his life in definitions of happiness.

To people who think they know him – reporters, biographers, employees – the concept of sentimentality in _Tony Stark_ is laughable. To people who know him well enough to know they don’t know him at all (Rhodey), _Tony_ is both sentimental and emotional and goddammit, sometimes it _hurts_ to know him. To the only person who may ever really understand him, words have always been written in lines and columns, and everyone knows you have to read between the lines.

So Tony lives and learns and grows and changes and so does ‘happiness’.

When he was four years old, his nanny had asked him if he was happy after he built a miniature robot that blew up and singed his bedroom floor and her dress. He was thrilled. The joints and mechanics had all been sound – it was only the fuel source that was wrong. He could fix it, make it work. So, to Tony, happiness was a scorched carpet and scolding nannies.

When he was eight years old, his mother asked him if he was happy after his boarding school called her about a fight. He was elated. The boys were older than him and bigger but dumber – they were just bullies. He could beat them, could win. So, to Tony, happiness was and uneven fight and angry mothers.

When he was sixteen years old, his godfather asked if he was happy after his mother and father died in a car accident. He was exhilarated. His parents didn’t like their too smart, too bold, too _everything_ child – they hid him away like a dirty secret. He could breathe, could create. So, to Tony, happiness was being orphaned and disappointed godfathers.

When he was twenty-one years old, a reporter asked if he was happy after he became the world’s youngest Fortune 500 CEO. He was excited. The company was stale and dying – there were no new ideas. He could renew it, rebuild it. So, to Tony, happiness was a nearly bankrupt company and too eager reporters.

When he was thirty years old, his best friend asked him if he was happy after he crashed his new sports car on an empty highway. He was euphoric. The world had been crystal clear and spinning and spiraling – he was high and never coming down. He could chase the rush, catch it. So, to Tony, happiness was a near-death experience and terrified Air Force Majors.

When he was thirty-five years old, a motivational speaker with sandy blonde hair asked him if he was happy after he snuck away from a science conference and decided to eavesdrop. He was tired and hungover and so very done – nothing was bright or interesting anymore. He wanted to sleep, to lie down and not wake up. So, to Tony, happiness wasn’t real and maybe never would be again.

He’s thirty-seven years old today.

“Are you happy?”

Today has been a bad day. Reporters and the media are throwing a fit because there was no _Tony Stark Birthday Bash_. Headlines will be sorely lacking with no drunken antics to report, no crashed cars, no burning mansions. There’s even been speculation by a few tabloids that he was dying, that his past year of good(ish) behavior was his way of making ammends before he bid farewell to this mortal coil. The SI board of directors is pissy because Tony wants to branch out into consumer electronics rather than just sticking with military weaponry. Really Tony wants to look into medical technology, but there’s no money in it, and he knows he has to ease the board into it. He’s spent way too many hours on a plane and in office chairs, and his back aches. Today has been a bad day, and, by all rights, Tony should be in a really, really shitty mood and very much unhappy.

“Seriously, man, are you happy now? Do you enjoy this?”

It’s been two years since Tony Stark met Shawn Spencer. It’s been a year and seven months since Tony snuck into a self-help seminar and away from a science conference. It’s been a year and a half since Shawn called Tony from a highway in Nova Scotia after he managed to get stranded with only one shoe, a fedora, and a pair of jeans. Tony had thought that incidents like that were the exception. He was coming to find they were, in fact, the norm.

“I just flew halfway across the world to come get you to find you wearing a skirt and bright pink socks with an angry Scotsman accusing you of stealing his goat. I’m pretty fucking happy right now. And yes, I thouroughly enjoyed watching you traipse around with your toes hanging out.”

“Kilts are literally the most comfortable thing in the world, but refusing to give me any shoes and then laughing when I wear a hole in my sock is not cool.”

Shawn wiggled his bare big toe at Tony pointedly. That was not the most ridiculous thing he had done today.

“Is that why you haven’t taken it off all day? The kilt, not the socks. I will never understand those socks.”

Shawn had been in Scotland, this time. He had apparently developed a fondness for traditional Scottish menswear in the month since Tony had seen him. He’s wearing a bright red plaid kilt (skirt) and knee high socks and nothing else and has been for hours now. In public.

Shawn shoots Tony a ridiculous megawatt grin and strikes a pose on the wall, leg out and hip cocked. “Yes. Also, Mel Gibson.”

Tony smiles and shakes his head and tries to pretend to be annoyed but can’t.

“You are definitely not Braveheart. More like Julia Roberts.”

“You’re right – I have better hair. Also – no. I have knee high socks, not thigh high boots.”

Tony rolls his eyes but doesn’t even try to feign annoyance anymore as he lets himself fall onto the couch with a huff. They just got back to Malibu, and he maybe feels a little bit tired but doesn’t want to sleep. Two and a half days with Shawn is worth a few hours less sleep. Plus – it’s his birthday. Bedtimes are insignificant.

But Shawn being Shawn notices.

“Okay, Birthday Boy. Time to get your jammies on.”

Tony just groans and goes boneless on the couch, spreading his arms and legs and just _sinking_. Shawn puts on his _Really? I have to be the mature one? Me? I threw tomatoes at Canadian Mounties last month._ look. Tony pokes his tongue out but doesn’t move an inch. Shawn sighs.

“Fine. Sleep in your ridiculously restricting Armani suit. I’m stealing your sweatpants.”

Tony smiles a little bit and closes his eyes, listening to the sound of footsteps as Shawn wanders into his bedroom. “I thought kilts were the most comfortable thing in the world.”

“They are,” Shawn calls out from his room. “Aside from your sweatpants. Those things feels like angel’s wings and silk and clouds had a sweet, sweet love affair. They are the _Ferris Bueller’s Day Off_ of clothing.”

 _“Might I point out the illogic of that statement_ ,” JARVIS says. Tony can hear the amusement in his voice and knows his AI is nearly as fond of Shawn as he is. _“Angel’s wings and silk and clouds are not only incapable of love affair, but, even if they were, three parties may not produce one single offspring.”_

“And they’re twenty dollar sweatpants that are nearly two decades old,” Tony adds.

“Meh. I’ve heard it both ways.” Shawn’s voice gets louder as he walks back towards the living room. “And JARVIS – I thought you were on my side. You and me, schnookums – we were going to rule the world and use Tony as our scapegoat. Foolproof!”

Tony gasps in mock offence. “Judas. Brutus. Traitors, the lot of you.”

 _“We would have kept you well fed and in public favor, Sir,”_ JARVIS replies smoothly. Tony can almost believe the plot is real. And knowing Shawn and JARVIS, it might already be halfway to completion. He’s strangely okay with that.

“So long as Shawn is willing to give me daily back massages and make pina coladas every night, I’m game.”

Shawn wanders back into the room and smiles, ridiculously chipper for someone who Tony _knows_ never sleeps more than four hours a night. “So – birthday cake? I can make pineapple upside-down.”

__

The world is quiet and still and calm and for once Tony doesn’t feel _gorushtalklietalkrushgo_ and he just wants to stay. The sand is warm under his skin and the ocean is cool on his feet. Shawn’s hair is soft under his hand and his stubble is rough on top of his chest.

“Why do you keep running away?” It’s the first thing Tony’s said in an hour.

When Shawn doesn’t answer for five minutes, Tony’s not worried. Time feels like molasses, sweet and slow, and the stars are bright in the sky. He can wait. Waves are soft and rhytmic in his ears. He wonders if Shawn can hear his heartbeat.

“I’m not running away. I’m chasing,” Shawn finally says, just barely whispering.

“What are you chasing?”

And in the silence Tony can hear Shawn breathing, imagines he can hear the sound of his mind whirling anf flying even in the calm of the night.

“I’ll let you know when I catch it.”

Tony thinks it’s the other way around. He thinks that Shawn’s just waiting for somebody to chase him, to catch him. He thinks that he’d like to try.

When he’s thirty-seven years old, a man in a kilt and pin socks asks him if he’s happy after he flew a plane to Scotland on his birthday. Tony is amused. They spend the night eating cake and laying on the beach and saying things that don’t make sense – there is no alcohol to be seen. He smiles honestly, laughs loudly. So, to Tony, happiness is falling in love to the sound of the ocean and the taste of pineapple.


End file.
